Always Wake Me Up
by TortiQuercu
Summary: A brief glimpse of life in Avengers Tower as Clint is woken up by his wounded partner. One-shot, written for BettyBackInTheDay.


**This short one-shot has been written for BettyBackInTheDay, who is hopefully as excited about the recent Age of Ultron trailer & preview as I am. Some **Clintasha UST for a rainy November day! **^_^ **

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><p>There was something to be mourned in the loss of a good, old-fashioned key-and-tumbler lock, thought Clint Barton. Of course the omnipresent keypads and scanners of Stark Tower were more secure, but he missed the faint clicking that would wake him up at any time of night, without fail, no matter how deeply he was sleeping. He never seemed to sleep well either, these days. It wasn't fair that someone could get into his quarters and stealthily proceed right into his bedroom before the hair standing up on the back of his neck would wake him with a start.<p>

These were his slightly grumpy thoughts as he glanced at the clock, rolled onto his back and smoothed down the hair standing up on the back of his neck. His middle-of-the-night intruder had quietly moved into the en suite bathroom and closed the door.

Oh, and that was another thing that bothered Clint. The plumbing was too quiet. He could barely hear the soft rush of water into his sink, And could the toilet at least have the decency to create an audible flush? He had fancy Stark robot hearing aids, for crying out loud…. these were sounds he felt he should be deafened by.

Clint threw off his sheets and stepped out of bed, pausing to turn the lights on to their lowest setting. He crossed his expansive bedroom in broad steps and knocked on the bathroom door. "Hey," he called out softly. "You okay in there?"

The door opened in reply. Standing there, covered head to toe in dirt and blood, was what he privately believed was his better half. Her eyes were wide and glistening, her lips turned up in a pout, the wet cloth clutched in her hand seemed to be poorly matched against the mess she was trying to clean up. Clint's heart tightened in his chest.

"Oh, Tash," he sighed, taking the sorry sight in fully. He pushed past the door and winced against the brighter light. "I'd hate to see what the other guy looked like," he teased as he reached for a fresh cloth and ran it under warm water.

"The other twenty guys, you mean," Natasha corrected him. "And I'm pretty sure at least five of them were non-human." She hissed in pain as he pressed the cloth against some nasty road rash on the side of her face. "Sorry for doing this here. I figured at least if I passed out in your ensuite, you'd find me in the morning. I didn't want to wake you up," she lamented.

He paused, and gently took her head in his two hands. "Always wake me up," he said firmly.

She smiled up at him in gratitude, causing her cracked lip to split open and more blood to slowly trickle down her chin. He wisely suppressed a laugh.

"I think this situation is beyond a couple of face cloths," Clint admitted. "I recommend stripping down and going right into the shower." He brushed experimentally at her auburn curls. "You've got about a pint of blood drying in your hair, you'll wreck the pillow cases."

She gave him a desperate look. "I…. I can't. I tried."

He raised an eyebrow and looked at her, confused. "Tried what?"

Natasha sighed. "I think I pulled a muscle around my shoulder blade or some shit. I can't get my stupid tac suit off."

He couldn't hide the amusement that flickered across his face. "I… ah. I see. Tricky." He rinsed the cloth he was holding in the sink, and went to work on the other side of her face.

"But you're right, I'm a filthy mess and I should just get in the shower," she continued.

"Yup, probably."

"It would be much easier," she prompted.

"Uh hunh."

"Dammit, Barton."

"What's that, Romanoff?" he gave her a beatific smile.

She bit her bloody lip. "You want me to say it, don't you?"

"Say what, Tasha?" he was practically humming in feigned innocence as he gently continued his ministrations.

Her eyes flashed. She grabbed his wrist and drew his arm down from her face. "Damn you, Barton," she breathed against his cheek.

He leaned in slightly so that his lips were at her ear. "Say it, Romanoff," his voice was gravelly.

He had cleaned her face enough that he was able to note her cheeks flush. He took a hold of the zipper under her chin, lightly brushing her throat. He looked at her expectantly.

Natasha took a steadying breath. She slowly and deliberately looked Clint up and down. Belatedly he recalled he was in nothing but his boxers. Her eyes lingered longer than necessary on his taut abdomen. Eventually, she brought her gaze back up and met his shining eyes. "Are you going to help me, or not?" she whispered.

He tugged playfully on the zipper. "Say it."

With a small flinch of pain, she slowly raised her other hand and placed a grimy palm on one of his pectoral muscles. His skin was uncommonly hot under her touch. "Hey, Barton?" Natasha murmured breathlessly. "Take my clothes off. Please?"

He gave a throaty laugh and pulled the zipper of her tactical suit down carefully. She drew in a sharp breath as he slowly maneuvered her injured arm from its sleeve. He frowned, and inspected her badly bruised shoulder thoughtfully. "You need to ice your upper arm, Nat. What the hell did you do?"

"I was falling down an elevator shaft, wedging my arm behind a girder seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I'm shocked that you didn't break it," Clint whistled in amazement. He peeled her suit the rest of the way down and supported her as she stepped out of it. He leaned into the shower and turned the water on.

"Undo my bra, too, would you?"

"How I've longed to hear those words," he joked as he deftly unhooked her. "You good for the rest?"

Natasha nodded and gingerly stepped into the tub. "Yeah, I'll manage. Thanks, Clint."

He nodded. "Holler if you need me. I'll get JARVIS to rustle up some icepacks and arnica oil. I'll see if I can massage the worst out of that shoulder blade."

"That sounds heavenly," she admitted. She watched the water turn red as it swirled down her body and into the drain. "If you can find a suture kit, too, I'd be grateful."

He chuckled on the other side of the shower curtain. "Oh, those I have plenty of. I'll be right back, okay?" He returned to his bedroom. "If you can manage it, be face down on my bed when I return."

"Speaking of words I've longed to hear…."

"Tease!" he called back.

"Hey, Clint?"

He stepped back into the bathroom. "Yeah?"

She poked her head out the curtain, now with slightly less blood trailing down her neck in rivulets. "Thanks for everything. I meant it."

"I mean it too, Tash. Always wake me up, okay? Always."


End file.
